


One More

by Chubstilinski



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Burping, Chubby Adam Parrish, Chubby Kink, Drunkenness, Feeding, Feeding Kink, Fluff and Kink, Food Kink, Hiccups, Intoxication, Liquid Bloating, M/M, Mutual Pining, Self-Indulgent, Stuffing, Teasing, Weight Gain, and they were roommates oh my god they were roommates, secret feeder ronan, virtually no attention paid to any canonical alcohol issues it's just for fun lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:21:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28162362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chubstilinski/pseuds/Chubstilinski
Summary: Adam fumbles for his keys. His fingers are numb and clumsy and it takes him a few moments to fish them out of his pocket, and another few to jam the right key into the lock and turn it. He stumbles into the apartment, catches himself on the door frame, drops his keys in the bowl by the door and kicks it shut only to realize, belatedly, how loud he's being.He pauses to listen for his roommate, but doesn't hear the telltale sound of electronica or his restless movements, so he figures that either Ronan is asleep (unlikely), or out (more likely). Ronan is usually the one to stumble loudly and drunkenly into the apartment at all hours of the night, and it's strange to be on the other end of it. He both desperately doesn't want Ronan to see him in this state and thinks that it would serve him right to havehissleep interrupted, for once.
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 14
Kudos: 96





	One More

**Author's Note:**

> just a short and sweet and incredibly self indulgent fic i banged out in a couple days and did not have beta'd because i'm a little embarrassed about it lmao. i hope somebody enjoys this besides meee <3

Adam fumbles for his keys. His fingers are numb and clumsy and it takes him a few moments to fish them out of his pocket, and another few to jam the right key into the lock and turn it. He stumbles into the apartment, catches himself on the door frame, drops his keys in the bowl by the door and kicks it shut only to realize, belatedly, how loud he’s being. 

He pauses to listen for his roommate, but doesn’t hear the telltale sound of electronica or his restless movements, so he figures that either Ronan is asleep (unlikely), or out (more likely). Ronan is usually the one to stumble loudly and drunkenly into the apartment at all hours of the night, and it’s strange to be on the other end of it. He both desperately doesn’t want Ronan to see him in this state and thinks that it would serve him right to have _his_ sleep interrupted, for once. 

Caution wins out, as it usually does with Adam, so he leans against the door to remove his shoes quietly and without falling over. His belly is slightly in his way, bloated and tight and full.

He can’t be bothered to put anything in its proper place, so he drops his bag and his blazer on the floor, and then struggles out of his tie, tosses it onto the couch as he ambles to the kitchen. 

He’s starving, despite being overfilled with a few too many beers and a couple of mixed drinks on top of an inhuman amount of greasy bar food. They had only been appetizers after all, not real food. 

Adam makes it to the fridge and opens it to stare longingly at its contents. He belches as he leans forward and one of his hands flies up to his mouth in a paltry and belated effort to smother the sound, but just in time to catch another. 

Ronan is a menace in a lot of ways, but one of his shining virtues is not only does he cook _a lot,_ he is virtually unable to portion an adequate amount of food for a single meal, never mind a single person, and so they are _always_ stocked with leftovers. So much that Ronan can’t keep up with it and is always pushing his food onto Adam so he won’t have to throw it away when it goes bad. Usually, Adam doesn’t take too much advantage of this—he only accepts what he’s offered. But tonight he doesn’t care if it’s been offered or not. He knows Ronan won’t mind. 

So Adam fishes out a tupperware full of baked ziti and dumps it on the counter. He spends a moment deliberating over the open case of beer in the fridge, but his gluttony wins out and he grabs one of those, too. When he fights with his foggy brain enough to find the right drawer, he emerges victorious with a spoon, rips open the tupperware, and shovels an enormous spoonful of ziti into his mouth. It’s decadent, even cold, savory and garlicky and overloaded with cheese. 

He washes that down with beer, and before he has the chance to stop himself, he’s chugged the whole thing. He sways into the counter, braces himself on his hands. His stomach is tight and suddenly, impossibly full. He burps and there’s an immediate release before he hiccups immediately after, and then once, twice more. 

He wonders, again, if Ronan is home. If Ronan would catch him like this--overindulged to the point of belching, hiccupping uncontrollably, but still managing to shovel back more food, chug one more beer. 

Ronan is out driving or drinking or getting into trouble a lot this late at night, and Fridays are particularly notorious for this. Adam can’t decide whether he’s disappointed by it or relieved. He doesn’t know what he would do if Ronan found him like this. He doesn’t know what Ronan would do. 

But if nothing else, Adam thinks he could probably cajole Ronan into making something fresh and hot and decadent enough to satiate this mood he’s in. He scrapes the bottom of the tupperware clean and burps. 

His stomach is tight with pressure so he kneads a hand into it until he belches again, loud and deep and rumbling, the product of an evening filled with greasy food and beer. It frees up enough space that he stands up straight, swaying. 

He opens the fridge again, and stumbles, catches himself on the freezer door. He takes out the next best thing to Ronan’s fresh cooking--more leftovers. 

It’s breaded chicken and stuffing mashed together into one container, and Adam balances it in his arms, piles leftover cherry pie on top, and grabs one, no, two more beers. On second thought, he puts them back and grabs an untouched six-pack, instead. He kicks the fridge shut without falling over, and then reaches into the pantry for a couple of bags of chips and then weaves his way to the living room and dumps his loot onto the coffee table before throwing himself at the couch.

It hits him all over again that he’s drunk. It’s been awhile since he’s been so drunk that he can’t even feel the guilt of getting that way. The only thing he cares about is the tight, hot fullness in his bloated belly and the way sounds keep slipping, involuntarily, out of his mouth--hallmarks of the extremity of his indulgence--drunken hiccups and beer-soaked belches and whimpers of pleasure or pain or both. 

Adam doesn’t often go out with his coworkers. For the most part, they’re not the sort of people he wants to associate with, but he forces himself into it every so often. This particular group are quite a bit more wild than the crowd Adam normally found himself with, Ronan Lynch notwithstanding. It’s both a reason he’s had to limit his nights out with them, and a reason he always finds himself going back for more, eventually. 

This is because, out of everyone else Adam has ever known, they’re truly gluttonous, hedonistic in their pursuit of a good time, willing to let it show on their waistlines how many beers they can put away, how much fried food. Gansey, in particular, is always quick with refills and seconds and thirds, just one more, two more, four more rounds. 

Every time Adam goes out with him it ends exactly the same way, but he can’t seem to resist. The truth is that he _likes_ Gansey, more than any of their other coworkers--he likes listening to him drunkenly wax about medieval poetry or historical fiber arts or whatever topic interests him at the moment. He likes him so much that, for him, he makes the same sacrifice he makes for Ronan--spending time with him despite the clear effect of it on his waistline. 

Tonight, Adam feels fatter than ever. He has to take off his belt because the buckle is digging into the underside of his belly. He feels weighed down by it, even as he shovels stuffing and fried chicken and pie into his face. He belches feebly when he finishes it all--a sick, overstuffed sound that leaves Adam desperate for the relief of a more robust burp. So he cracks open another beer and swallows a few mouthfuls to let the gas build up inside him. He burps, slight and airy, drinks some more, and then opens a bag of chips. 

Adam spends good while alternating between handfuls of cheese puffs, barbecue potato chips, and sips of beer, until he's swaying gently because he can hardly manage to sit upright. 

That’s how Ronan finds him. 

He slams open the front door, stumbles in and says, “Jesus fuck, Parrish.” 

Predictably, Ronan’s drunk too, by the looks of it--his movements are heavy, exaggerated, slow. It takes him a few tries to get his boots off, leaning against the door like Adam had done, and by the time he does, he’s slid to the floor. He slurs, “You look fuckin’ wasted.” 

Adam opens his mouth to say, _pot, kettle,_ but finally, a loud, deep belch comes out. So instead, he says, “Shit. ‘Scuse me.” 

“Fuck,” Ronan says. 

He curses even more than usual when he’s drunk and Adam feels himself smiling and saying, “Happy hour with--” He’s interrupted by a hiccup, “Ugh, with Gansey and everyone.” 

Adam tries to sit up, but his stomach cramps and he collapses back into the couch. 

“Fuck,” Ronan says, again. He crawls across the floor over to where Adam is, and says, “Were you tryna get another beer?”

Adam hears the beer cans knock together and then before he can formulate a response, a fresh, opened one is being presented to him. He takes it and puts it to his mouth even though he can already feel the--how many, six, eight?--other beers fill every available square inch of space in his belly. 

Cold rivulets slide down his throat and pool in the fold between his neck and double chin, and he belches halfway through, before he remembers that he has company. 

Ronan laughs, though, a little breathless. Adam wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and licks his lips. He can feel heat in his face, but it’s been there the whole time and wouldn’t be noticeable to Ronan. “Sorry,” he slurs. 

Ronan’s grinning, shaking his head, _don’t be._ “I’ve never fuckin’ seen you like this, man. Jesus, how much have you _had?”_

Adam pouts, shrugs his shoulders sloppily. He says, “Blame Gansey.”

“I’ll send him a fucking gift basket.”

“‘Thanks for getting my roommate plastered. It was hilarious, xoxo Ronan.”’

“Perfect. He deserves it for getting that stick out of your ass.” 

“I don’t have a stick up my ass.”

“You do,” Ronan says, but it’s strangely fond and Adam is feigning offense more than he’s actually offended.

Ronan says, “But he can’t be blamed for all of this, can he?” He’s looking over the debris scattered around him--a couple empty beer cans and two empty tupperwares and open bags of chips. He says, “I don’t see Dick here. This was all you.”

Ronan pats Adam’s belly to punctuate his point, and Adam chokes on air. He says, "Guess so."

To avoid having to respond further, he drinks the rest of his beer, traps the resulting belches behind his closed lips, at least, but they’re loud and obvious anyway. He hiccups and realizes that Ronan’s palm is laying flat against the bloated crest of his beer belly. He hiccups again, and feels his heart hammering in his chest and the inferno of heat radiating from Ronan’s hand. 

Adam is distantly aware that he’s hard. He has been, maybe, since Ronan crawled towards him on his knees. He should feel embarrassed, but instead he feels shameless--there’s so much want seeping out of him that all he can do is rest his own hand on top of Ronan’s in wordless encouragement. 

Ronan gasps and bites his lip hard enough to leave little white indentations a moment after he releases it. Adam wants to suck on it, wants to bite it, himself, but he doesn’t think he can sit up enough to do it. Which is probably for the best, because Adam’s not sure how he would react. 

It’s okay, though, because Ronan is touching him with his big, clumsy hands, massaging the ache away and shooting sparks across Adam’s overheated skin. He’s writhing under the attention, he realizes, moaning a little, deep in his throat. 

Ronan’s mouth is hanging wide open and he’s panting for breath. “Tell me,” he says, “Please. Tell me what you had.”

He sounds desperate, and Adam doesn’t know why, but it makes him at least twice as desperate just to hear him beg for it. 

“I don’t even know,” Adam says, badly slurred and accented. “A lot.” He has to stop, to burp into his fist. “Lot of beer. Five, or—or six, maybe, when I was out. And bar food, can’t remember all of it. Onion rings. Potato skins. Nachos. Cheese fries. A margarita, some other drink. A pink one, donno what. Then I came home and wanted something else, so I…” He gestures around himself. “Christ. That’s a lot isn’t it?”

“Yeah, that’s a goddamn lot.” Ronan’s eyes flutter shut and his head lolls to the side, falls to rest against Adam’s swollen belly. He nuzzles his face into it, a little. Adam can’t take it. “Always love to see how much you can put away. ‘S fuckin’ impressive.” 

Adam’s laugh turns into a strangled hiccup halfway through. “Thanks, I guess,” he says. 

He hesitates a little, but impulse wins out, and he finds his fingers tracing the velvety texture of Ronan’s shaved head. Ronan hums, contentedly. 

He likes Ronan when he’s drunk, although he didn’t used to. He used to think being drunk made Ronan too loud and too reckless and too wild, but now Adam enjoys that wildness for what it really is: honesty. It’s all of Ronan’s intensity poured into every moment, unguarded and shameless. Ronan always says that he doesn’t lie, but he doesn’t often tell the truth, either. He does when he’s drunk, though, because he can’t quite manage to hide or deflect, so instead he’s just terribly earnest. 

Once, Ronan came home after a particularly rough night. He was bruised and limping from a fight and Adam guided him to his bed and took off his boots for him and when he looked up into his face, Ronan said, “You’re real pretty, Parrish.” 

Adam had thought it was polite to ignore it and never bring it up again, so that’s what he did, even though his mind replayed the words over and over and over. 

Adam hadn’t made the decision to meet Ronan’s earnestness with some of his own, but perhaps alcohol has much the same effect on him. He says, “Wished you were here to make me somethin’. You make the... the best food. The best.”

Ronan perks up, eager. “Want me to make you something now?”

Adam still has enough wits about him to know that Ronan is at least as far gone as he is. He says, “I want you not to set the kitchen on fire.”

“Hey, I’m a fuckin’ excellent drunk chef, you don’t even know, man.” 

“I don’t. Because of the time you _set the kitchen on fire.”_

“Once! Jesus Christ, how’re you still such a fuckin’ smartass?”

“‘S a gift.” Adam eats another handful of chips. 

At some point Ronan’s hand must have stopped moving and Adam only notices because he starts up again, then—playful, searching sweeps. It feels sinfully good. He thinks, _oh, God, please,_ and only manages not to say it out loud because his mouth is otherwise occupied. 

Ronan says, “Aren’t you full yet? Shit damn, Parrish.”

Adam tries to roll his eyes, but he thinks he might just blink slowly, he isn’t sure. He can’t really feel his face. “Of course I am.”

Ronan's eyes bore into his, intense and dilated. “But you want more.”

And Adam does. He says, “Make me somethin’ that doesn’t use the oven. Or the... stove top. Maybe the microwave, but I reserve the right to check to make sure you don’t put, like, metal or plastic in it.”

“When have I _ever_ done that?” Adam gives him a look, and he remembers. “Oh yeah. Technically that was Noah.”

“But you let him. That counts.”

“I thought it would be funny!”

“Ronan.”

He takes his hand off Adam’s belly, and Adam almost regrets asking. He thinks he should get to have both. “Fine,” Ronan says. “Coming right up. Bossy asshole.”

“You offered!” 

“Yeah, I offered to make you what I want! Now i have to figure out what to cook without heat. So fucking picky.”

“Is it picky to not want my apartment to burn down while I’m inside of it?”

“You wouldn’t be inside of it, I’d fireman carry you out of here.”

“I’d genuinely like to see you try.”

He’s certain that Ronan is strong enough, despite Adam’s size. His stupid arm muscles aren’t just for show. But he’s also certain that he would fall on his ass trying. 

Ronan grumbles, and braces his hands on Adam’s knees to lever himself up. “Jesus fuck,” he says, and stumbles when he gets to his feet, nearly toppling over again. Adam can’t catch him, he can only watch, relieved as he manages to right himself. He picks up one of the cans of beer and cracks it, takes a long pull, and passes it off to Adam. 

Adam drinks deeply, compelled by the desire to put his lips where Ronan’s had just been, chasing their warmth. And then his stomach cramps. He burps, and burps again, and drains the can, drops it carelessly to the floor. 

“You’re a fucking maniac, you know that?” Ronan calls from the kitchen. Adam looks over and he’s holding up the empty ziti tupperware and the can of beer he’d chugged before he came into the living room. 

Adam laughs. “And you’re an enabler.” 

“I literally wasn’t even home.”

“You are now and you’re enabling me.”

“I can stop if you’re just gonna complain.”

“I’m not complaining, I'm just pointing out the facts.”

Adam feels loose, and fuzzy, his vision slightly blurred or maybe doubled. He melts further into the couch and munches on chips until he gets too thirsty and dry-mouthed and he needs another beer. 

No, he doesn’t need another beer. Ronan had been right, he’s fucking wasted, more than he’s ever been, maybe. He can hardly push himself up to grab one anyway, but somehow, he shifts himself to the side without compressing his gut too much, and then he’s drinking another beer. Not carefully, but more languid. He wishes he’d actually kept track of how many he’s had. He thinks he’d like to know the real number very badly. 

He has the half empty can balancing on his belly when he starts to hiccup, again, and again, and again. They won’t stop this time, and they kind of hurt, kind of jostle his belly unpleasantly, but there’s something about it that he likes, and he’s way too out-of-it to overthink it, so he just basks in the feeling instead. 

Before he knows it, Ronan is standing in front of him, holding out a thick, messy, double-decker sandwich. It looks like roast beef, and it’s dripping some kind of sauce, and there’s a pool of chips on the plate surrounding it. Adam’s mouth waters and he holds out his hands to accept it. “That looks amazing,” he says, and then hiccups. 

Ronan beams. “Happy to please.” 

He falls onto the other end of the couch, but the couch really isn’t all that big, and so Adam’s lap becomes occupied by the warmth of Ronan’s legs. 

He takes a bite and moans around the mouthful. Ronan put a layer of potato chips inside, just the way Adam likes and Ronan always makes fun of him for. It’s delicious, and just exactly what he wants. He doesn’t know how Ronan makes even sandwiches taste so much better than anything he could put together for himself. 

“Good?” Ronan asks. 

Adam nods and makes a sound of enthusiastic agreement, because his mouth is too full to answer with real words, and when he finishes the bite, he takes another--immediate, like he can’t bear the absence of it for even a second. He only pauses for sips of beer. It’s difficult to eat around the hiccups, but not as difficult as it would be to not eat something so perfect. 

Ronan watches him eat, and it should be weird, but it isn’t. He knows Ronan likes when his food is appreciated, and Adam is more than used to Ronan staring at him, anyway. He enjoys it, even. Craves it. Laps up the attention like he’s starving, except that right now it couldn’t be further from the truth. 

When he finishes, he licks his lips and his fingers clean and sighs, satisfied. He’s dizzy with fullness, dizzy with too much alcohol, but the last beer sits on the coffee table, and he can’t help but reach for it, chasing something, just a little more. 

He feels out of control, and that should be terrifying, and humiliating, but it isn’t. Adam can’t find either of those feelings in himself, and he knows it’s because his cognitive processes aren’t at full functioning capacity, but he thinks that maybe it’s also because Ronan is here and he’ll make sure Adam is okay. He knows he will. 

Adam belches when he leans forward, deep and full-sounding, and he moans in relief. He cracks open the beer and collapses back, and beer spills over his hand and his shirt before he can put it to his mouth and take a long, indulgent gulp. 

“Mother Mary,” Ronan whispers. He clears his throat and says, louder, “You nearly drank that whole six pack yourself, you greedy fucker.” He nudges Adam’s belly with his shin. “How’s it feel?”

“Feels—” Adam hiccups, pants. “—feels heavy.” And only as he says it, does he notice that it does feel heavy. His belly is bloated and sloshing with liquid, desperately overfilled. It also feels amazing, and he says so, watching Ronan’s dazed expression and the way he can’t keep his eyes off of it for more than a second. 

On impulse, Adam puts a hand to his stomach and shakes it. It pushes up a bubble of air and he burps, and Ronan’s breath stutters out of him. His hips jerk, and Adam’s eyes are drawn, helplessly, to the outline of Ronan’s hard cock in his tight, black jeans. 

“Oh,” he says, _“Ronan.”_

“Fuck,” Ronan says, grimacing. He takes his legs back and sits up, presses a hand to his cock and hisses. “Fuck, sorry. Sorry.”

“No, I. It’s okay.” He reaches out for Ronan’s arm and says, “Me, too. No big deal.”

He thinks that Ronan must have noticed, how could he not when he’d been staring at him since he got home? When Adam’s slacks are thin and silky and light grey and Adam is sure they don’t hide a damn thing. But Ronan’s head snaps to him, and his eyes dart down, and his mouth drops open when he sees that Adam is so hard he thinks he could probably come the instant someone touched him. He tries not to think about that someone being Ronan, but he’s not that strong. 

Ronan doesn’t say anything for a long while, so Adam takes the time to look at him the way he always wants to. His blue eyes are glassy and unfocused and offset by long, dark eyelashes. His sharp cheekbones are highlighted bright red and his mouth is begging to be kissed. Adam says, “You’re real pretty, too, you know. I should’ve said” 

“Oh my fucking God,” Ronan says. “This isn’t real.” 

“It isn’t?” Adam says, stupidly. It would make a lot more sense if it weren’t real. This feels like a dream. An illicit, shameful wet dream. 

Ronan takes the beer out of his hand and downs the rest of it in a few deep gulps. He shuts his eyes tight and breathes out a shuddering breath. “Fuck me,” he says.

“If it’s not real,” Adam says, “I can do whatever I want.” 

Adam leans closer--a lot closer. Close enough that he can smell the body wash that Ronan uses and the sweat on his skin. He trails his fingertips across the back of Ronan’s neck, where his tattoo claws its way out of the collar of his t-shirt. 

It makes Ronan shiver, and he whispers, “What are you doing? What is this?”

Adam says, “Well, I was going to kiss you.”

_“Now?”_

Adam’s confused. Is there a better time? He says, “Yes?”

“You’re--you’re drunk, Adam. _I’m_ drunk.” He rubs both hands into his face. “Fuck, I can’t... do this, not like--”

Adam’s heart is a hole in his chest. “Why not?”

“You know why not,” Ronan snaps. He stands up on unsteady legs. “I’m sorry, fuck, I’m--I’m gonna go to bed. You should get some sleep.”

“Ronan,” Adam pleads. He doesn’t want Ronan to go, even if he doesn’t want to kiss him, after all. He just wants him here.

“Tomorrow,” Ronan says, “I promise,” but Adam doesn’t know what that means. 

Ronan weaves his way to his room and slams the door shut behind him. 

Adam collapses--metaphorically, emotionally, physically. He swipes a hand across his face and he can barely feel it. He doesn't know why Ronan bailed, but he's still so insanely turned on. He cups a hand around himself and thinks that he should have asked Ronan to get him some ice cream before he left. He thinks it would go nicely with the beer, like a root beer float.

Adam doesn’t remember falling asleep, just waking up with his face pressed into the back of the couch. He’s twisted around in a blanket he can’t remember putting on himself, one leg dangling out of it and spilling onto the floor. He’s still in his undone slacks and button-down. It’s way too tight and deeply uncomfortable. His mouth tastes like ass. His eyes are crusted shut, and he groans when he pries them open. It’s too bright. His head is pounding. “Fuck,” he says, vehement and disgusted with himself. 

The night comes back to him in waves. First the bar, then coming home and gorging himself on leftovers, and then Ronan. “Fuck,” he says again. He sits up with effort, and a wave of nausea hits him. He’s forced to confront the extent of his excess as he takes in his surroundings--the empty beer cans, the tupperware and plates and crinkly, colorful bags. And then his eyes catch on a full glass of water and a bottle of Advil on the coffee table, right next to him. 

He shakes out three pills and downs the entire glass, and he realizes he has to pee, so he gets up, trying to ignore his relentless, pulsing headache.

Ronan is in the kitchen, banging around as quietly as he’s capable. His ears are covered with headphones, so Adam is able to sneak to the bathroom without being noticed. 

After he finishes peeing and brushing the taste of stale beer from his mouth, he splashes his face with water, and then looks himself over in the mirror. His hair is all over the place and he has a sick, tired look about him. More than usual, even. 

He’s bloated, severely, and he’s a complete mess. Not only is his shirt hopelessly wrinkled and stained with beer, but the buttons pull around his midsection, almost enough to show skin. How long had he been wearing this, while he obviously needed to size up again? He wonders if he looked like this at the bar. He knows he looked like this by the time Ronan got to him. 

More devastating that all of that is the confused, heartsick churning feeling that’s taken up residence in his stomach. Or maybe that’s just the hangover. 

He can’t face Ronan, not after--not after what happened. He isn’t quite sure _what_ happened, except that Ronan had been unquestionably into it, right up until he wasn’t. What had Adam been thinking, coming on to Ronan like that? He hadn’t been, is the obvious answer. 

Ronan’s fist slams against the door three times and Adam jumps. He yells, “Parrish! Are you alive? I made waffles, come eat.” 

Adam shuts his eyes, breathes in and out, shaky and raw. “Okay,” he says, despite himself. He loves Ronan’s waffles. 

He opens the door to find Ronan looking domestic in his ridiculous apron, headphones now around his neck. He’s setting a steaming plate of waffles in front of Adam’s chair at the kitchen’s bartop. Ronan smiles when he sees him, and Adam’s heart stops. 

“C’mon, man,” he says. “You need carbs to soak up all that beer.”

Adam shuffles over to the bartop and sits, obediently. He takes a sip out of his favorite mug, coffee made just the way he likes it. There’s a triple stack of waffles on his plate, slathered in butter, and Ronan pours warm maple syrup all over it. It looks decadent. Adam says, “I’m not sure I need _that_ many carbs.” 

“You had a lot of beer.” Ronan grins.

Adam has no idea what has Ronan feeling so chipper, but he’s not complaining. He’d have thought this would have been a hell of a lot more awkward than it is. He’s grateful that they can go back to normal after all that weirdness. 

Though it’s also possible that Ronan blacked out and doesn’t remember the way last night ended, and Adam’s not about to remind him. 

He digs into his waffles and moans, brokenly. They’re perfect. He tells Ronan this, and it earns him Ronan’s face splitting into another devastating grin. 

Ronan sits next to him and starts eating his own double stack, but he’s sneaking glances at Adam every few seconds. Adam knows because he’s doing the same. 

He expects to start feeling full halfway through, but he doesn’t. He's strangely ravenous, and it dawns on him that his stomach must be stretched out from last night. The thought of it is both embarrassing and… interesting. 

When he finishes, he looks over at Ronan, who’s got his elbow resting on the counter and face turned to watch Adam unabashedly. Ronan says, “I’ve got some more batter, if you want.” 

Adam says, “No, I--” And then he’s interrupted by a burp before he can try to hold it in. He feels heat crawl up his face. “Uh, excuse me. I better not, I’m pretty full, actually.” 

Ronan huffs out a laugh and says, “Sure.” 

“I shouldn’t.” 

“Sure,” Ronan says, again. 

There’s no real, concrete reason for Adam to want more, but he says, “One more.”

For the life of him, Adam can’t understand why, but Ronan looks visibly pleased by this, elated even. He jumps up to heat up the waffle iron again, and pours in more batter. Adam sips at his second mug of creamy, sugary coffee, and considers that most people would think about cutting back, at this point. Taking their coffee black, eating toast or maybe yogurt for breakfast instead of mountains of waffles--doing something, anything to keep their clothes from getting incrementally tighter, instead of just letting them. 

When Adam has eaten one more enormous waffle, he’s full enough that he’s leaning all the way back in his chair and bracing his hand on his belly, breath coming out in pants and trying not to make any humiliating sounds. 

“So,” Ronan says, fiddling with his fork. “Are you feeling sober?”

Adam looks at him, suspicious. “Unfortunately…”

“Good.” Ronan averts his eyes, suddenly shy, which is just about the weirdest thing Adam has ever seen. “Just wanted to make sure we did this right, you know?”

“Did what right?”

Ronan turns to him, brow creased between his narrowed eyes. “You remember, don’t you? Please, God, tell me you remember.” 

Adam thinks he does, so he says, “I’m… yes. I remember.” 

“You remember wanting to kiss me?”

Adam gulps. It’s not what he’s expecting. He could lie, if he wants an out, but he says, “Yes.” 

Ronan takes a sharp breath through his nose, and then blows the air out slowly through parted lips. His eyes lock on Adam’s. He reaches out to touch Adam’s cheek with two gentle fingers, and leans in close. Their lips are barely a hair's breadth apart. Ronan murmurs, “Do you still want to?” 

_“Yes,”_ Adam says, and then Ronan’s lips are on his, warm and chapped and real. 

Adam’s heart kicks up in his chest, his stomach swoops, he makes a sound in his throat and grabs at Ronan’s t-shirt as if he needs something to hold on to, like he’s falling. He parts his lips and so does Ronan and then they’re _kissing,_ and it’s everything Adam dreamed it could be. Every inch of his skin feels electric. 

Ronan pulls back, but not far. Adam’s still holding him close. His eyes open, and he looks at Ronan, gorgeous and flushed and happy. Because of this, because of _him._

Everything feels dreamy and surreal. 

Ronan laughs a carefree, giddy laugh, a sound Adam’s certain he’s never heard from him, not ever. “Wow,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. “You look so fucking smitten.” 

Adam says, “Shut up,” and shoves him, but not hard. He stays right where he is. 

“No. Fuck you. I’ve been waiting--I’ve wanted this for so damn long, Adam.” He leans in for another kiss, a quick one. Too quick. “Let me enjoy it.” 

“How--wait, how long?”

“Like, since Gansey was trying to play roommate matchmaker, but I didn’t even _want_ a fucking roommate, but he wouldn’t listen to me, because he felt guilty for moving in with Sargent and wanted someone to babysit me. And he introduced us and I thought, maybe having a roommate wouldn’t be so bad if the dude Gansey had been waxing poetic about for months was also the actual most beautiful man I’d ever seen in my life, so I went along with it because it was an excuse to see you every day.” 

“Christ,” Adam says, because if he thought his feelings for Ronan have been going on for too damn long, that was apparently nothing compared to Ronan. Had he really had feelings for Adam for two years? “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, I can’t believe I didn’t _know.”_

“I kind of thought you did know, I wasn’t very subtle.” 

“I didn’t… I don’t…”

Ronan rolled his eyes. “I cook for you, like, all the time.”

“Jesus, is that a love language thing? Were you showing me you cared by making me eat enough for two people at once? 

“I would hardly say I was making you, but sure.”

Adam’s heart is going crazy with the thrill of it. He says, “Think you went a little overboard.”

“How do you figure?”

He considers the place where one of Ronan’s hands rests--where it was once a perfectly tapered and flat waist, now puffed out in swells of fat on either side. He considers the round, bloated belly that rests on his thighs just a few inches from there. “Ronan,” he says. “Don’t make me say it.” 

Ronan smirks and he grabs a handful. It makes Adam gasp, startled and needy, and Ronan says, “Oh, you mean all this? It doesn’t exactly bother me.” 

It really doesn’t seem to, Adam notes, and then something dawns on him. “Have you been making me get fat on purpose?”

Ronan shrugs, unapologetic. “Looks good on you.” He moves his hand around to palm Adam’s belly, like he’d done last night. Adam is having trouble breathing. Ronan says, “And I can’t help it if you eat whatever I put in front of you. You’ve turned into such a fucking glutton _,_ God, I love watching you eat.”

Ronan’s hand pushes in hard. Adam burps, and then swallows back a noise. He says, “Sorry,” and then, “You’re lucky I love eating, you asshole.”

Softly, Ronan says, “I know,” like he doesn’t mean just that. 

So Adam kisses him, because he can, finally. And Ronan kisses back, touching him with reverence. Adam can feel desire rolling through every part of him, catching on strange things like the pulsing pressure in his gut when Ronan touches it--how it jiggles and squishes in his hands--how he thinks that he could eat a little something, probably, and that Ronan would make it for him if he asked, would feed him whatever he wanted, however much he wanted, whenever he wanted. 

He thinks that Ronan got the short end of the stick, actually.

Adam is definitely the lucky one. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at chubstilinski! i don't know how to link things anymore apparently lol


End file.
